Burned
by jojospn
Summary: Third in my Atlantic Canada series. The boys are on the case in rugged Newfoundland and Labrador, where victims are stabbed found stabbed to death, their bodies severely burned. Set somewhere around season 6, slight spoilers for those who haven't caught up yet.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Well, here is another installment of my Atlantic Canada series! This time the boys are in the rugged terrain of Newfoundland and Labrador, investigating a string of mysterious deaths of** **vacationers in the L'Anse aux Meadows National Park, in the northern tip of the island of Newfoundland. Set around season 7 after Cas heals Sam but before taking down Dick Roman. Hope you all enjoy! And as always, I don't own **_**Supernatural,**_** all rights to Eric Kripke and co.**

**Chapter 1**

**L'Anse aux Meadows, Newfoundland, about 990 AD**

The day is peaceful, the seas at a dead calm. It begins like any other day as Odin gathers around a meagre fire, enjoying yesterday's bounty with a beautiful woman at his side nursing a small child, his son, at his side. The firelight casts a warm glow upon the trio, and he smiles, eyes filled with love for his new family. The woman smiles back at him, gently rubbing a hand on the newborn's tiny back. Their home is warm and dry, the little delicious smells of fish permeating through the little hut, his belly will soon be full, his wife and child are happy…what more could one possibly ask for?

The woman pulls the baby away, the child cooing softly, and lays him on his bed, prepared to consume her own breakfast. The two sit by the fire, share their humble meal together, listening as the waves crash along the rocky coast. He loves their home, beautiful Vinland; the fish are plentiful, the terrain is beautiful, and the raging oceans are a wonder to behold. So calm from a distance, but wild, crashing against the rocks at the coast, its roar more soothing than any childhood lullaby. He has fallen to slumber to that sound ever since his family has settled on this new territory a few months previous, his weary, hardened heart soothed by the scent of salt water and the moans and crashes of the waves below.

Odin will never again rise to the crash of the ocean.

He doesn't hear the sound of footsteps creeping along the thick grasslands outside, the quiet breathing of men trying to remain undetected. He stuffs a piece of fish in his mouth, savouring the smoky flavour and closing his eyes in pleasure. The crackling of the fire, the comfort of the situation, distracts Odin from the danger, so that he is unaware when the strange man approaches his door until it is too late. He looks up in time to hear his wife scream, rush to the back of their humble abode to grab the baby, only to be stabbed in the back with a spear. For a second, Odin stares at his dying wife, unable to move, unable to _breathe. _And then his instincts as a father, as a proud Viking kick in and he lunges to his attacker, echoing a loud battle cry. No one dares to attack Odin's family and live to see another day.

He feels the warm, sticky blood before he feels the pain. Stunned, Odin looks down, grasps at the wound in his abdomen with trembling hands before looking up at the man who attacked him. He is a native to this country, of this Odin is certain. But weren't the Nordic the first to land here? To settle and continue the proud tradition of his people? He opens his mouth to question, but no words come, only faint gurgles as he feels the life slowly drain from his body. He can hear his wife's faint moans as she succumbs to her injury, the wails of his child in the background. He falls to his knees, eyes dulling with pain, the sound of footsteps muffling as several other men pass around him, no doubt assuming that he is dead, or at least will be soon. And then, heat as the attackers set his home ablaze, the flames crackling as they dance along the hut's grass and wooden walls. The home he has worked tirelessly to build, his lover (who was very much with child) by his side. He remembers her beautiful smile and shining eyes as they share a laugh; hearty meals around the fire, sharing a warm blanket and watching the millions of stars, scattering across the velvet sky like diamonds. He remembers the first night they had actually spent within their home's four walls, just days before the birth of their son, how they had simply enjoyed each other's company as they held hands and shared their dreams of the future. Dreams which have now been abruptly shattered by a stranger's weapon…

As the flames engulf his home, inch ever closer to his dying body, Odin lets out one last, weakened cry before he succumbs to eternal darkness.

**Secondary A/N: Hi guys! Sorry this intro chapter is so short, it's supposed to be similar to the cold opens that we see on the show, just set up. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this new story! I'm really excited but kind of nervous to see how this one goes! A little something for the history nuts out there like myself! (Oh, and if there are any factual inconsistencies in this story, I apologize ahead of time, they are all my wrongdoing!) **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: First of all, want to mention a little correction. The summary says this story is set in season 6 (after Sam has his soul back) but the AN says it is set in season 7. Forgot to edit the A/N, this story is in fact set in season 6. Sorry for any confusion. Thanks to LilyBolt and mandancie for their reviews of chapter 1, it means so much to me! And as always, I don't own **_**Supernatural, **_**for entertainment purposes only. Note, there is a flashback in this chapter, which will be written in italics to (hopefully) avoid confusion.**

**Chapter 2**

It felt good to have a soul. Sam Winchester never thought that such a thought would ever cross his mind, even in the messed up world he and Dean had inherited from their father, but as he stared out the passenger window of the Impala, admiring the ocean view from the uncomfortably steep cliff (and secretly praying that Dean's driving skills wouldn't fail him now) Sam realized just how meaningful it was to actually empathize, to _care_ for those people he and his brother helped. Something he had easily taken for granted before Cas had brought him back from Hell as, well, as Dean had so bluntly put it, a "soulless dick bag". He had gone for months like a robot, exterminating without so much as a second thought, not caring in the slightest if someone got caught in the crossfire. Someone like his own brother.

But now, on their way to their next case, Sam indulged in the fact that he actually felt for the victims of their latest job. It was quite nasty, really. Victims found stabbed through the stomach, before being burned to a crisp, all within a hundred mile radius on the northern tip of the Canadian island of Newfoundland. When Sam had heard how the latest victims had suffered, he had felt a sense of relief at his newly restored empathy (which, in fact, he felt guilty for. For goddsake, he shouldn't be feeling _glad_ about anything to do with grisly, untimely deaths, no matter how legitimate the reasoning). And secretly, he knew Dean was feeling the same way. Hell, he'd grinned like a kid in a candy store when he'd chastised him for swiping a dead girl's diary. Of course, he'd had no clue as to why at the time, but…

"Fuck, I hate cliffs." Dean's rather tense baritone interrupted Sam's thoughts, and the younger Winchester turned to his brother. For once, the Impala was practically silent, Dean for once not blaring Metallica or Maiden. Well, Sam couldn't really blame him. As beautiful as the terrain was, it was more than a little nerve wracking to be just passing by as a passenger, let alone the driver along the narrow cliff side roads. The eldest Winchester's knuckles were white, gripping the steering wheel as if for dear life, and his lips were pursed in a tight line. "Shit, Sammy, this is almost as bad as flying. Goddamn, why did this job have to be in the middle of butt fuck nowhere? A hilly version with a freaking long ass way down…"

"You want me to drive?"

"Nah, I'm good." Silence for a few minutes, then the sound of Dean's voice as he hummed "For Whom the Bell Tolls." Of course. Nothing calms a man down better than Metallica. They drove in silence (well, other than the rather off key hums and the gentle murmur of the Impala's engine) for several minutes before Dean finally felt comfortable to engage in conversation. "This better be worth it, Sam."

"Well, yeah, I think saving people from being burnt to a crisp is worth it."

Dean smiled. "Glad to hear that your estrogen levels are back to normal, Samantha." The remark earned a smirk from his little brother. But in truth, Dean _was_ relieved to see his brother, his Sammy, back to normal. Back to being _human._ To have the brother who not only genuinely cared for people's wellbeing, but who wouldn't just sit there and not blink an eye when being abducted by aliens, turned into a fucking _vampire…_ Yeah, that hadn't been the kid's fault, but the wound still hurt, was still relatively fresh. It was comforting to know that Sammy was once again had his back.

Twenty minutes later (much to Dean's, and admittedly, even Sam's relief) the brothers had pulled in to a charming cliff side motel with the creative name of _The Seaside Inn._ Dean checked the brothers in, and a few minutes later, was indulging in a practically scalding hot shower. Not surprisingly, Sam was already at the laptop, researching the mysterious death of Kyle Cavanaugh. Within minutes, his relatively good mood was dampened as he read the grisly details of the young man's untimely death.

XXX

_The young man was walking home, huddled in his heavy winter coat, toque, and woolen mittens. He wasn't really used to how cold the weather was, even for Canadian early March standards. "Guess I was spoiled," he muttered to himself, in reference to the mild springs of southern British Columbia. Blowing a tuft of air into his numbing hands, twenty-eight-year-old Kyle Cavanaugh quickly made his way along the dimly lit streets, looking forward to a nice, hot shower and a cup of tea. Or a nice bowl of chili. Anything to get rid of this fucking chill…_

_Lost in his thoughts (and freezing his ass off, of course) Kyle didn't notice how the already icy cold night air had gotten just a shade more frigid. Nor was he aware of the slight flicker of light (ever so faint) from behind as the figure of a man appeared behind him. Perhaps if Kyle Cavanaugh had turned around, he would have noticed how ridiculous it was to see a man dressed up in full Viking gear (well, minus the stereotypical horned helmet depicted in many a cartoon or cheesy opera), even with that tourist trap set up nearby. He would have possibly laughed his ass off, seriously pissing him off. Or maybe he would have hightailed it, hauled ass back to his rather cramped basement apartment. Hell, running would keep him warm, right?_

_But instead, Kyle Cavanaugh had done what most people walking home from work do. Paid attention only to his thoughts, thinking of warm beds and not potential threats. By the time he felt that something just wasn't _right,_ it was too late. Something (hands?) grasped him by the shoulders, tossed him into a nearby ally as if he were light as a feather. Kyle looked up, brown eyes wide in both confusion and fear as the apparition materialized before him. Standing not a few feet away from him was a relatively short man, dressed in what looked like period clothing…or what would have been if it were not completely charred. His skin and hair was also burned beyond recognition, save for a pair of clear blue eyes, eyes filled with pain, sadness…and _anger. _For a while, Kyle simply stared at the man, forgetting he was moments away from possible death, mesmerized. _

_The agony from his abdomen snapped him back to reality. Kyle let out a cry as he felt white hot pain, immediately followed by the warm gush of his blood. He slid to the ground, clutching his wound, and yet still somehow mesmerized by the figure before him. The two shared eye contact before Kyle felt his body burst into flames…_

XXX

Sam snapped the laptop closed, unable to read more. It was too much like his mother's death. Like Jessica's. He pushed the device aside, rubbing his tired eyes and trying to steady his rapidly beating heart with a few soothing breaths. From the bathroom, he could no longer hear the sound of the shower running. Great. He just might be having panic attacks for this one. Thankful that his brother had missed out on his near breakdown, Sam sat up, rummaged through his duffel for some clean boxers and his toiletries. He had just pulled out the baggie with his toothbrush and toothpaste when the bathroom door opened and Dean entered the room, dressed in sleep pants and a faded tee, his hair damp from his recent shampoo.

"Bathroom's free."

"Great," Sam replied with a little too much enthusiasm and Dean gave him a quizzical look, but fortunately, said nothing. Sam was relieved. He loved his brother dearly, and was normally the one eager to engage in the sharing and caring stuff that Dean hated worse than the plague, but this was something he felt he had to keep to himself, much like the visions from all those years ago. Sure, ultimately Sam had shared his secret with his brother, but those had been a common occurrence at the time. So far, this little attack had only happened the one time. Not enough to mention to Dean; would only cause him to freak out, or worse, to not trust him. _He's finally just getting it back from when I was RoboSam. Last thing I need right now is for him to think I'm not on my A game._

"Wow, that was weird. Got a copy of _Busty Asian Beauties _hiding in there, Sammy? Thought that wasn't your thing." Sam rolled his eyes, flashed Dean the bird, and headed for the sanctuary of the bathroom. From behind the closed door, he could hear his brother chuckling as he called out, rather loudly, "something you ain't telling me there, little bro?" _Well, at least he doesn't seem too freaked out at the moment._ But that meant nothing. Sam Winchester knew his older brother like the back of his hand, just as Dean knew everything of him. Yeah, it was a little creepy, a tad co-dependant, but it was the truth. One of his older brother's coping mechanisms was to hide his true emotions with his wit, a joke or two. Usually it would come to surface for something as serious as facing certain death (though never Sammy's, as he knew all too well) but that didn't necessarily rule out his preferred method of coping for other smaller issues. Like knowing when your kid brother is keeping something. As he felt the hot (well, lukewarm goddamn Dean and his epically long showers!) spray relieve his tense muscles, Sam Winchester thought, for the first time since waking up a few months ago, that there were some benefits to not having a soul.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: A big thanks to mandancie, LilyBolt, and mb64 for their awesome reviews! A big thanks also to those who read, followed, or favorited this story too! And as always, I don't own **_**Supernatural, **_**regrettably.**

**Chapter 3**

The next morning Sam awakened to a splitting headache and waves of nausea rolling in the pit of his gut. Winching in pain, he sat up gingerly in his surprisingly comfortable bed and reached for the glass of water on the night table. He groaned at the sight of the glossy periodical strategically placed next to it: _Busty Asian Beauties,_ the swimsuit edition. Of course. "That's mature, Dean," he muttered, throwing the magazine across the room to where Dean was still snoring away in the bed beside him. The mag smacked his brother in the face, and Sam could hear a muttered curse as his older brother opened one sleepy eye. "Dammit Sam, I need to sleep."

"Well, next time keep your pornos on your side of the room." Dean chuckled and sat up, rubbing sleep filled eyes. "Aww, come on, Sammy, you know you like it."

"Shut up, Dean."

"Wow, someone didn't get his beauty sleep."

It was true. Sam had been restless that night, and no doubt his brother knew it, too. Nightmares of Jessica's death, dreams he'd thought he'd put behind him, had haunted him. They were practically identical to those from five years ago, replaying his girlfriend's tragic death over and over. But what made the dreams even more terrifying was not just the instant replay of Jess's murder, but the sound of laughter in the background. Because this time, Lucifer was watching in the background, taunting him as Jessica burned. Cackling with glee as her body burst into flame, Sam watching helplessly from the bed below. Sam had awakened a few hours before dawn to the cold glass of water and a bottle of Aspirin. Dean wouldn't wake him up unless the dream had been particularly frightening (Sam knew from experience that it was never a good idea to startle someone into wakefulness unless absolutely necessary unless one wanted a black eye or a split lip) but he had known that Sam would likely wake up feeling like shit. Sam had to smile a little at that. The little things.

"I'm fine, thanks." Sam popped open the plastic bottle and shook a few capsules into the palm of his hand, swallowing them with the now warm water. He wasn't fine, and judging by the look Dean gave him, his brother also suspected that he was full of shit, but said nothing, instead sitting up and rummaging through his duffle for his good suit. A trip to the local police station was in the schedule for the day, and maybe (if Dean were lucky) a little investigation in the local watering hole. "Gonna get some breakfast after my shower. Want anything?"

"Maybe a bagel, light cream cheese." In all honesty Sam wasn't hungry, but he had to put on a front for Dean. No way was he going to make his over protective brother go on mother hen mode. Though in all honesty, knowing Dean, his "big brother radar" would kick into gear soon enough. Besides, he knew he needed to eat something.

Dean rolled his eyes at his brother's selection and headed off into the bathroom for his shower. Rubbing his aching temples, Sam fired up his laptop and began to research, not really expecting to find much. Kyle Cavanaugh was single, rented the basement of a middle aged couple's home on the outskirts of L'Anse aux Meadows. A national historic site, the place was a major tourist destination, especially in the summer months. Looking back to the obligatory history courses all Stanford undergrads had to take in their freshman year, Sam remembered how the island of Labrador had been suspected as being the first part of North America where Nordic immigrants (more commonly known as Vikings) had settled around 1000 BCE. Forgetting briefly about the case, Sam found himself engrossed in the article. Law had been his passion, but Sam Winchester had also found history to be fascinating as well, to the point where many of his friends had bugged him to change majors. By the time Dean, who had showered and left while Sam read, returned with breakfast and steaming Styrofoam cups of coffee, the younger Winchester had read several articles on the subject.

Dean leaned over his brother's shoulder, where a particularly stereotypical image of a Viking in full regalia looked up at him, a perpetual scowl frozen on his face. "Geek boy," he muttered, setting the coffee and wrapped bagel on the table beside him.

Sam reddened, embarrassed to be caught doing something other than researching the case. "Sorry man, was looking up stuff on the Nordic people…"

"No kidding."

"Turns out that L'Anse aux Meadows was supposedly the spot where the Vikings first landed."

"Um hum," Dean muttered through a mouthful of breakfast sandwich. Sam rolled his eyes. "I know, should be researching our vic, sorry. But I figured where you'd left me that little gift this morning I was given a free pass to skip the research." With a little smirk at the crumpled up magazine on the floor.

"Shut up."

XXX

An hour later, the Winchesters, decked out in full suit and tie, pulled up along the RCMP offices. The reception area was deserted, save for the bored looking constable sitting behind the desk, sorting through several forms. The badge on his pristine uniform read Constable A. Doyle. He looked up at the sight of the two men, each reaching into their breast pockets as if on cue for identification. "May I help you?" he asked tiredly, pushing aside the Criminal Record Check forms he had been processing.

"Agents Scott and Young," Dean replied, handing the constable his fraudulent badge. Sam followed suit, and the cop eyed them carefully for a moment before handing them back. "What brings you boys up here for?" he asked, pushing his glasses to the bridge of his nose and eying the brothers with serious grey eyes.

"We're here about the Cavanaugh case," Sam answered smoothly, tucking the badge back in his pocket. "Seems more than a little unusual to see someone killed in that way. Especially not of natural causes."

"No kidding. No way the guy could have stabbed himself and spontaneously combust like that."

"Hmmm." Dean furrowed his brow and Doyle shot him a rather confused look. "Were you not briefed on the details of the case? That alone was what made this case really weird, if you ask me." Sam eyed his brother in irritation, but Dean was immediately on the rebound. "Yes, I am aware of that, sir. But it still shocks me every time I hear someone mention it. You don't just burst into flame every day, now, do we?"

"No, of course not, Agent Scott. No what did you need to know about Cavanaugh that isn't already in your report?"

"Just a few precautionary measures," Sam spoke up. "Our supervisor is switching the case over to other agents soon and we wanted to make sure that everything is accurate before the transition." Doyle seemed to buy the younger Winchester's lie, and led the brothers down to the morgue. "Dr. Everleigh is not available at the moment, but so long as you fill out the proper paperwork everything should be fine." The constable led the boys to the morgue, handed them the necessary forms, and left the brothers alone. "Finally," Dean mumbled as the door closed behind them. "Guy kind of gives me the creeps."

"Dean, the guy's just doing his job," Sam sighed impatiently as he scanned the rows of drawers, stopping before one labeled 22. Seconds later the charred remains of Kyle Cavanaugh lay before the Winchesters. Sam had a strong stomach, but at the sight of the burned body, he felt a sudden wave of nausea and that morning's bagel threatened to come up.

_Jessica is lying on the ceiling, body blackened as the flames finally die, revealing the charred clumps of hair, nightgown, and singed flesh…_

"Sam, you alright?"

Sam snapped out of his reverie, blinking a few times at the sound of his brother's voice. "Yeah, I'm good." Dean shot his brother a look which clearly said _you are so full of shit,_ but said nothing. The Winchester brothers were, in fact, two peas in a pod. Neither one of them, especially Dean, eager to share their feelings or show weakness to their sibling. Even with the countless examples of how bottling up their feelings never paid off in the long run.

Resisting the urge to void his stomach of his meagre breakfast, Sam donned a pair of plastic gloves and began investigating the burned remains. Fortunately, the horrific images of his late girlfriend began to subside and Sam found that he could concentrate on the gruesome task. After a few minutes, he stopped, eyeing an area near Cavanaugh's stomach.

"What is it?"

"Did you bring your phone? I want a picture of this." Sam gestured to the suggested area with a finger and Dean obediently pulled out his cell phone and snapped a photo of the desired area. He eyed the finished product, somewhat confused. "What is it?" he asked again.

"Looks like a stab wound. But not just any weapon was used to create this. Definitely not a knife or anything like that." Sam slid Cavanaugh's remains back where they belonged and closed the unit shut. "Not exactly sure what kind of weapon could cause a wound like that but I bed it isn't 21st century." Relieved to be leaving the morgue, the brothers quickly filled out the required paperwork (who knew when they would need to make a trip back?) and returned to the safety of the Impala.

"You hungry?" Dean asked, cranking up the AC/DC and backing out of his space. The last thing Sam wanted was something to eat, and wondered if he would even be able to keep it down. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see images of both Jess and his mother, side by side, pinned to the wall, watching him with pleading eyes. "This is your fault," Mary hisses as a deep gash slowly makes its way across her belly.

_No. Nononono….._

"You did this to me, Sam." Jessica's voice is soft, gentle, and yet horribly menacing as an identical wound slices along her own abdomen, blood red contrasting against the white of her night gown.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that Dean hasn't noticed his behaviour, deciding that in all likelihood he has anyway. Sure enough, Dean is giving him that weird, big brother look. "It's the bodies, isn't it, Sammy?" _Of course he caught on. Nothing gets by Dean Winchester._ Sam finally nodded, not willing to meet his brother in the eye. He can't. Not yet. Not when he is trying so hard to prove himself.

"You sure you want to go through with this? We can set this one out, give Garth a call. I'm sure he wouldn't mind bringing that house boat up here for a week or so."

_No. I can't sit this one out. I have to get over this. Can't let this get the best of me. He has to be able to trust me again._

"No, I'm fine." A little too harsh, and Dean sighs, steers the Impala back to _The Seaside Inn. _"Whatever you say, Sammy." But after stealing a glance at his younger brother, Dean couldn't help but worry about the kid. Because as much as it relieved him to see his brother showing emotion, he couldn't help but fear that before things got better, they would most certainly become horribly worse.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Just wanted to say a huge thank you to mandancie, mb64, applepieisnice and LilyBolt for your recent reviews. Thank you so, so much for the support, great motivation to keep the chapters coming! A big thanks also to those who have read, followed, and/or favorited this story too. You guys are awesome! And as always, I regrettably don't own **_**Supernatural.**_** Warning. The first part of this chapter may disturb some readers. It contains some slightly dark content. **

**Chapter 4**

A late spring snow squall bellowed outside, blanketing the once dull browns and greys of the Atlantic Canadian landscape into an equally unpleasant slushy mess. But inside the cheery pub, Daniel Becker felt not the chill of the weather but the warmth of several pints of Alexander Keith's. A native from Long Beach, Daniel was visiting Newfoundland and Labrador on a rather sombre mission: the settling of his late grandfather's estate. Business he most certainly didn't want to get involved with. The old man had been an abusive asshole and, in all honestly, had gotten what he deserved when he dropped dead a few weeks back. Fatal heart attack. Danny Boy, the old miser had called him, a nickname which had repulsed Daniel, still did to this very day. Good riddance to bad rubbish, actually. Worst part was that the old bastard had to die in fucking Newfoundland in the goddamned winter. At least the beer's good. Daniel swallowed the last of his pint and fumbled in his wallet for a few bills (unintentionally tossing a fifty, but not really caring in the slightest). "Keep the change." The young bartender picked up the colourful bill, shrugged, and slipped the change into his pocket. Gotta love the drunken tourists.

The chill of the night air did little to sober Daniel as he trudged along the slush covered streets, trying to shrug into the light spring jacket he had unwisely packed when leaving California. Fucking Canadian winters. Daniel tried to blink away the beer buzz as he unsteadily meandered along, occasionally leaning against a building for support. Christ, he couldn't remember the last time he had been this wasted. Maybe a few years back. The divorce had been brutal, and Sherry had basically milked him for every penny. Never got to see the kids, except maybe on holidays and birthdays. Fuck, when did life become this shitty? Fighting the urge to vomit the several pints (not counting the tequila shots he's downed before switching to the Keith's), Daniel slowly made his way back to the hotel. A nice bed, some Aspirin and he'd be ready to face the Beckers. All greedy assholes who suddenly loved dear old gramps now that he was pushing daisies, completely forgetting about the black eyes and the broken bones. The man shuddered, wishing he had drunk enough to erase the painful childhood memories.

Shrouded in the darkness of the past, Daniel Becker was blissfully unaware that he would never make it to that law office. Stumbling in the darkness, he didn't notice when the temperature seemed to drop several degrees; didn't see the flicker of the lone streetlight. And he most certainly didn't see the grotesque apparition behind him, icy blue eyes filled with anger and hatred. Not until it was too late.

"Wha'fuck?" Daniel slurred as he felt something (hands?) grasping his shoulders and turning him forcefully around, slamming him against the wall of an antique book store. Still too drunk to even comprehend what was going on, Daniel felt not fear at the figure before him, but anger. How dare this asshole jump him like that? Who did he think he was, his goddamn _grandfather?_ The stranger only eyed him coldly, refusing to answer. "What's the matter, asshole? Cat got your tongue?" Or at least that was what Daniel thought he was saying. The apparition ignored the drunken ramblings, choosing instead to stare rather blankly at the inebriated man for a few moments. Just as the unfortunate Daniel Becker was about to attempt another pitiful excuse of a comeback, he felt something sharp plunge into his abdomen. He stared at the stranger, now finally coherent enough to really see the man – _thing_ – before him. For standing there was a rather short creature, its blackened skin highlighted by the lone streetlamp and the white of delicate snowflakes. The remains of its tattered clothing fluttered in the wind. Daniel opened his mouth, tried to speak but instead only faint gurgles escaped from beneath his throat. As darkness threatened to overcome him, Daniel Becker's last conscious thought was that the old bastard had somehow gotten the better of him, even from beyond the grave.

XXX

Flashes of blue and red pierced through the darkness, casting eerie glows along the slush covered streets and upon the charred body slumped against the brick wall. Sam and Dean pushed past the curious onlookers gawking at the spectacle and tossed aside the yellow, plastic tape, the words POLICE LINE, DO NOT CROSS emblazoned in bold. In synch, the Winchesters flashed their badges, shuddering from the cold. _Really should invest in some professional looking coats,_ Dean thought to himself as he shivered. _Fuck, it's cold!_

"What've we got?" Sam was down to business, at least, on the outside. The younger Winchester was in fact once again fighting nausea at the sight of the body nearby, but somehow managed to keep from spewing what little stomach contents remained on the constable's boots.

"Same as last time," the grumpy looking cop acknowledged, gesturing over to the body with one gloved thumb. "Burnt to a crisp, but not before being stabbed in the belly. Not the best way to go, eh, mate?"

"No," Sam muttered, wiping his brow, sweaty despite the cold. "No it isn't."

"You ok, boy?" In his thick Newfoundland accent, it sounded like "bye". "Lookin' a little green along the gills."

"Just getting over a flu bug, that's all." The portly constable arched an eyebrow. "Then you shouldn't really be out here, buddy. Should be in bed with some Neo Citran or whatever."

"Well, the bad guys just don't sit there and wait for the good guys to get better, do they?" Dean looked at his brother in surprise. Normally he was the one with the smart mouth, not his do gooder little brother. He wouldn't put it past the constable to clock the kid one. But the officer just shrugged. "Guess so, eh?"

"Can we see the body?" Dean was fed up with the pointless banter; all he wanted was a shower and bed. The constable nodded and led the Winchesters to where the charred remains slumped along the wall, surrounded by technicians collecting evidence samples. Dean gestured for them to leave and a few minutes later, the brothers were alone with the body.

"Looks like the same MO as last time," Sam muttered, sifting gingerly until he found an identical stab wound in the body's abdomen. "Nothing we haven't seen in the morgue yesterday." He sat up, rubbing his temples, gazing at his surroundings. He couldn't lose it. Not now. Dean had already noted how pale he looked before leaving the motel. The last thing he needed was to be benched. As he leaned glanced upwards, he noticed the reflections of the blue and red lights upon a street sign. Second Street. Sounded familiar.

"Hey Dean, you remember where Cavanaugh was killed?"

"Second Avenue or something like that." Dean paused for a moment, thinking. "This is the same street, isn't it, Sammy?"

"Think so. I think that sometime tomorrow night we should check this place out. We might actually run in to our pyromaniac."

"Oh, Sammy, I love it when you take control like that. Makes me all excited."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Whenever you're ready Dean we can head back to the motel." Chuckling, Dean followed his brother back to the Impala, fishing in his pocket for the keys. "No complaints there, dude. I need a freaking shower. Temperatures this low should be freaking outlawed."

XXX

It was almost midnight when Dean parked the Impala under a street lamp on a one way street. No way would he leave his Baby in some sketchy alley. He opened the trunk, rummaged through its contents, and settled on his trusty 1911, a silver knife, and his trusty sawed off. Though he wasn't certain, both he and Sam suspected some spirit action from this case. As a precaution, he stuffed some extra salt rounds in his pockets. Always be prepared. Fuck, he just sounded like a damned boy scout. Beside him, Sam was arming himself as well, slipping his Tauras in the waste of his jeans. Slamming the trunk closed, he turned to Dean with a look of grim determination. "Let's go."

Dean sighed. Though feeling a little better, Sam still had looked pale after the trip to the crime scene the night before. He had tried once again to convince his little brother to sit this one out. "No shame in it, Sam," he had said. "I wouldn't blame you for wanting to pass this one to someone else." _And I need you on your A game, dude. Can't have you freezing up on a case. You could get yourself killed._ Though he hadn't actually voiced those concerns, Sam had read the message loud and clear. "I'm fine, Dean," he insisted a tad too harshly. "I'm not going to lose my cool, ok? You just have to trust me."

And admittedly, as Dean looks at his giant older brother, he thinks that maybe, Sam might actually have this one. Huddling in his jacket, Dean switched on his flashlight and led the way to the pre-chosen spot on Second Street, a few meters from where both bodies had been discovered. Crouching in the darkness, the brothers waited for their culprit to make its appearance.

They didn't have to wait long. Not ten minutes after settling in their positions, the temperature dropped significantly and the telltale whine of EMF meters going haywire broke the stillness of the night. So it _was_ a spirit. Expectantly, the boys raised their weapons, eyes peeled for any sight of their baddie. Sure enough, it materialized nearby, prowling the streets, searching for its next victim. Carefully, the brothers snuck along the sides of buildings, weapons drawn, their EMFs still wailing. "Shit," Dean muttered, switching the device off. No sense in blatantly announcing their presence.

Slowly, the brothers made their way through the darkness. The spirit continued to meander along the streets, ever searching for its prey. And then, suddenly, it disappeared. "Great," Dean muttered, eyes scanning the impenetrable darkness in search of the spirit. "Split up?" Sam gestured and Dean nodded, branching off in the opposite direction. For several minutes the search was uneventful. No further sign of the spirit. He pulled out his EMF, switched it back on; it beeped faintly. Which meant that it wasn't really near him. So if it was still around…

An all too familiar yell echoed in the stillness and Dean froze, heart pounding madly in his chest. He'd recognize that voice anywhere.

"SAMMY!"


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: A huge thanks to mandancie, mb64, applepieisnice, and LilyBolt for your recent reviews. I'm so happy you guys are enjoying this, it means so much! Thanks also to those who have followed, favorited, and read as well. Much love! DISCLAIMER: I don't own **_**Supernatural,**_** just borrowing the boys. Not for profit, but entertainment purposes only.**

**Chapter 5**

"SAMMY!"

Dean's voice, filled with panic he hadn't felt since the day his kid brother had collapsed shortly after regaining his soul, echoed through the stillness of the night. Hundreds of scenarios, equally horrifying, flashed through his mind as Dean skidded through the slushy mess at his feet, heart pumping wildly in his chest. Sam burnt to a crisp, Sam bleeding from a horrendous stab wound in the gut, Sam mutilated beyond recognition. True, the last horrifyingly imaginative possibility was highly unlikely and not their monster's MO, but at the moment, Dean's brain was not thinking about logistics. Following the sounds of Sam's struggles, Dean made his way (rather carelessly, how his father would disapprove!) through the darkness, weapon drawn, eyes peeled for any telltale signs of spirit activity.

Nearly slipping on a particularly thick bit of slush, Dean rounded a corner in time to see his brother pinned to the wall, fighting off the ugliest fugly Dean Winchester had seen since that creepy scarecrow in Burkittsville. The creature was of relatively short stature, about Dean's height or even slightly shorter, with tattered, blackened clothing, as if they had been mostly burned by fire. What really disturbed Dean, however, was the charred skin, sliding off the body like (as odd as the simile sounded) like overdone Thanksgiving turkey, revealing bone. The sight nearly made Dean throw up the bacon double cheeseburger he had had for dinner; but of course, nothing got in the way of Sam, especially not pissed off, charred ghosts. Quickly Dean fired a well-aimed round at the spirit, who dissipated like snow on a warm spring day.

Within seconds Sam had regained his bounds, brushing off fragments of burned flesh from his skin. Surprisingly, he did not seem as disturbed by the creature as Dean had been, despite Sam's recent issues surrounding this case. Guess the whole "fighting off a pissed off ghost" thing changed one's perspective pretty damn quickly.

"You ok, Sam?" Sam nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks."

_What happened, Sammy?_ The question was about to form on Dean's lips, but he stopped himself. The boys had been caught off guard by spirits before. Memories of Hell House in Richardson popped through his mind, and of the spirit who just wouldn't die. It had taken both Winchesters by surprise. And those damn ghost hunting posers, the soon to be _Ghostfacers!,_ hadn't helped things either. Hard to concentrate on ganking spirits when you're babysitting. But Sam was a good hunter, one of the best, other than their dad. It shouldn't have been that easy to surprise him. Dean looked at his brother, gun ready, face drawn in grim determination, and decided to let this one slide for the time being. They were on a hunt, and the last thing Sam needed was to be reminded by Dean that maybe, just maybe, he should have sat this one out after all.

Sam seemed to have read his brother's mind. He shot Dean a "don't even _think_ about it" look before leading the way in the darkness. "Let's go," he said briskly. Shrugging, Dean nodded in agreement and followed his brother. They made their way through the slushy mess, eyes peeled for any sign of their spirit. Unfortunately, from the silence of their EMFs, the Winchesters determined that after its failed attack on Sam, the spirit had decided to back off for another day. Cold, tired, and more than a little frustrated, the boys returned to the Impala in silence.

The drive back to the motel was silent, Sam staring moodily out the window as Dean concentrated on driving through the messy roads. Another reason why he preferred the hunts in the southern and mid-western states where snow was rare, if non-existent. Finally, he pulled the sleek car to a stop in front of their room and led the way inside, Sam following dejectedly. Now that the night was over and the adrenaline rush worn off, he'd gone back to the brooding little brother Dean was used to. When the Winchesters were safe in the warmth and relative comfort of the room, Sam immediately dropped his duffle in the spot he was standing and wordlessly made his way to the bathroom, closing the door with a little too much vigour behind him.

Sitting on his bed, listening to the sounds of the shower running, Dean though of how he was going to confront his brother about the hunt. Maybe he was wrong, and Sam had done all the right things. Nothing he could have done to get himself in harm's way. Shit happens. But maybe he had been distracted by his past, the ghosts of their mom and Jessica, and maybe that had been just a bit too much for Sam to deal with. Dean was no psychologist, by no means, but it wouldn't take a doctorate degree to find a connection between burned bodies and their similarities to Mary and Jessica's deaths.

But he knew it would be a wasted effort to get his brother to sit this one out. If anything, the similarities would make Sam more determined to put a stop to these deaths. Perhaps the closure of solving them would be good for him. But would it be worth it if Sam's nerves and potential freak out sessions cost him his life?

_Calm down, Dean. You didn't actually _see_ the fucker attack Sam. For all you know the kid did nothing wrong. Stop jumping to conclusions. _And in all likelihood, Sam probably _hadn't_ done anything really wrong, per se. The kid was brilliant at what he did, even when preoccupied. "Shit," Dean muttered, rubbing his temples at the beginnings of a headache. This was the last thing either of them needed.

A few minutes later, Sam came out of the shower, dressed in his boxers and t-shirt, looking not much better than he had when he went in about fifteen minutes earlier. The kid looked exhausted as he collapsed on his bed, not bothering to slide under the blankets. Within minutes, he was asleep. God, the kid looked exhausted. Even if he hadn't just passed out, Dean would have probably spared him the talk. Sighing, Dean rummaged through his own duffle for pajamas and his toothbrush, and made his way to the bathroom for his own shower. Whatever needed to be discussed could wait for the morning.

XXX

Not surprisingly, the next morning, Dean didn't mention his concerns to Sam, and his younger brother willingly refrained from mentioning it too. Pushed to the back burner, but not really forgotten. Dean went out, as usual, to grab breakfast while Sam plopped in front of the laptop to research. Slightly stiff from the night before, he opted to lean in bed to do his work rather than sit at the little table in the corner. When Dean came back with pancakes and coffee, he found his brother asleep on the bed, computer askew on his lap. Dean sighed, placed the Styrofoam container of food in the corner, and munched on his own breakfast as he hunkered down and did a little research of his own.

By noon, Dean and Sam (who had awakened shortly after Dean's arrival to the comforting smells of his breakfast) had found little on their perp. But from the police scanner in the corner of the room, the brothers had figured out one thing. Another body had been found on Second Street. The attacks were becoming more and more frequent, the spirit seemingly agitated. Sam slammed the laptop closed in frustration. "Fuck," he yelled, kicking his chair in frustration; Dean winced as it crashed to the floor. "We should've stayed. Damn it, Dean, we should've _stayed!"_

"And gotten ourselves killed? You seemed to have done a good job with that last night."

_Whoa, _Dean thought the moment the words slipped. _Low blow._ But this had to get out in the open. No way was Dean going to let his kid brother get hurt. Even if it meant slipping out a cheap shot like that. But regardless Dean couldn't help the pang of guilt when he saw the hurt in his brother's hazel eyes.

Moments later that hurt became anger. "What the hell is that supposed to mean, Dean?"

"Sam." The anger out of Dean's voice now. "I'm sorry man, but you're not yourself. You barely sleep. You're having nightmares as bad as right after Jessica died. You can barely make it through an autopsy or crime scene. And last night you let a ghost get the better of you. Something Sam Winchester rarely does."

"So if the shoe was on the other foot, there'd be _no way_ you'd have been caught off guard." Dean looked up, but before he could reply, Sam continued. "Of course not, because you're _Dean fucking Winchester._ Who can do no wrong." Sam's voice was rising an octave higher with each word and Dean worried that before long, someone would come knocking on the door, asking them to shut the hell up, for Chrissakes. But Sam seemed to be on a roll. "But Sam, he's nothing but a fuck up. The demon blood junkie. The demon fucker. The one who kick-started the goddamned Apocolypse." By now there was a catch in Sam's voice, and Dean could tell that his brother was fighting off tears. The fight gone, he gazed downward, unable to meet his brother in the eyes. During the rant, Dean was surprisingly calm (at least outwardly).

"Sam…"

"Don't," Sam whispered. "Never mind. I'm just tired." Dean opened his mouth to complain, but then quickly snapped it shut again. To bitch at Sam would make him a hypocrite. After all, where had the kid learned to bottle up his feelings from in the first place? "Okay, man." Sounding dejected. Something Dean Winchester rarely was. He reached for the keys to the Impala, heading out the door. "I'm going to the library. Be back whenever. Don't wait up." Sam didn't even mention how rare it was to have Dean go to the library while Sam stayed back in the motel. He didn't look up until the door closed with a little too much vim behind him. And when he did, there were traces of tears sliding down his cheek.

XXX

Dean had always hated libraries. The need to be ever quiet; the sound of pages turning, pens scratching on paper, or lately, the tap of fingers on a keyboard. The massive tomes which needed to be looked through. It was more Sam's thing. And as Dean sat in a corner, looking through newspaper articles from months in the past, he wished that Sam was sitting there with him, rolling his eyes at Dean's annoying comments or sipping his douchey Starbucks coffee while jotting notes. Dean sighed, pulled out his flask. After the fight with Sam earlier, the elder Winchester had particularly felt the need to indulge a little in the Hunter's Helper. Unfortunately, while researching, he had to limit the alcohol intake. But just a little to calm his nerves wouldn't hurt.

He'd been there for several hours already, the clock on his cell phone announcing that it was 5:30. He'd found jack shit. Frustrated, he pushed the newspapers away, leaned back in his chair, rubbed his temples gingerly. He sat up, pulled out his keys. Just in time for his cell phone to vibrate on the table beside him. Sam calling.

"Yeah," Dean muttered, gathering his papers and trying to put them somewhat back in order. Sam's voice sounded somewhat excited on the other end, and Dean felt his interest peaking slightly.

"You on the way?"

"Yeah, you want me to pick up something to eat? Some of that thai stuff you like?" Hopefully will improve his mood.

"Don't worry about it, just head home. I think I know what caused those stab wounds."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: First, I want to apologize for the delay in posting chapters. Really busy at work, and my new schedule has thrown off my sleeping patterns like crazy. The joys of being at work for 4:30 AM. Anyway, I want to thank LilyBolt, mb64, mandancie, and applepieisnice for your recent reviews! Thanks also to those who read/favorite, or follow this as well. It is really appreciated! And as always, I don't own **_**Supernatural,**_** regrettably.**

**Chapter 6**

"I've never seen anything like this before," Sam muttered appreciatively as he scrolled down the web page, admiring the images of various types of medieval weaponry. "I've read of similar weapons in one of my western civilization courses at Stanford but… it's incredible." For once, Sam was at a loss for words as he marvelled at the selection of spears, knives, and axes, just to name a few, from as early as 900 BCE. After a few minutes, Dean looking over his shoulder with interest, Sam stopped at an image of a spear, the shaft made of ash and the head measuring fifty centimeters give or take, in diameter. The same dimensions as the wounds Cavanaugh and Becker had sustained.

"Those things look ancient," Dean acknowledged, popping the top on his beer and enjoying a generous swig. "I'd say about 3000 AD or somethin' like that."

"Not a bad guess. These spears originated around the Viking era, between 800 and 1050 after the death of Christ."

"So you're saying a Viking ghost has been offing our vics?"

"Looks like. Turns out that this place is a hotspot for spirit activity. There's a tourist site, some national park which is pretty much specifically highlighting the Nordic settlers. Rebuilt Nordic homes and that kinda thing. They even have Viking festivals."

"Sounds like a great time," Dean muttered, rolling his eyes as he tipped his bottle again.

"Yeah, and a great way to stir up spirit activity. There's even a Viking graveyard nearby. I bet lots of pissed off ghosts have been awakened by tourists. But still doesn't explain why our ghost is haunting an urban area and not that settlement."

"Maybe he wanted a change of scenery," Dean joked lamely. Sam barely acknowledged his brother as he began clicking away on different sites. "First things first, we need to ID our firebug." Dean nodded, relieved at the determination on Sam's face as he researched. Since their argument that morning, Sam had seemed to have regained some of the spirit he'd had earlier. He certainly didn't look like he was about to have a panic attack or puke up the salad he'd picked up for him on the way back from the library. But then again, he wasn't staring at burned up bodies, either. Dean sighed. He knew his brother like the back of his hand. In all likeliness, he was following the age old rule of "fake it till you make it." But for the moment, Sam seemed fine and Dean decided to leave it at that.

"Dean? Are you even listening to me?"

"Mm-hm." Dean headed to the mini fridge and pulled out a fresh beer. "Got any ideas who ghost boy is?" Sam shook his head _no_ and snapped his laptop shut. "I think we need to take a closer look at the public records."

XXX

"You boys came here all the way from Kansas?" The friendly young woman flashed the Winchesters a grin as she handed them a site map and bright yellow proof of admittance stickers. "That's quite a way to look at old Viking houses." Dean returned the grin with one of his own trademark smiles, even sticking the god awful sticker to the front of his shirt without a single grumble. "My brother's a huge history nut. Especially when it comes down to tracking down genealogies and stuff. He's been working on our family tree for a while now and we think we have some Nordic blood way back."

"Is that so?" the clerk asked, looking (or at least pretending to look) interested. In fact, the girl seemed to be interested only in the green eyed hottie who seemed to like talking for his rather quiet, and equally good looking brother. Kinda hot. Dean seemed to notice her as well, and how the top button of her uniform seemed to be a little lower than most. Sam noticed to, and gave his brother a quick kick in the leg. _Time and a place, remember? _Taking the hint, Dean scowled at his brother before continuing.

"Anyway," leaning forward to read the young woman's name tag (and sneaking a little peak, what was the harm in that?), "Haley, we were wondering if you knew of any records we could take a peek at. See if we can find more about him." The receptionist eyed him rather anxiously. She could get in a _lot_ of shit for letting these two have access to private records such as these. They actually should have been stowed in a museum. But when Dean flashed that grin, turning the Winchester charm on full force, Haley caved. "Fine," she said, a hint of anxiety still present in her voice. "But please, _please_ be careful with them. If anyone finds out I gave you access to that stuff, I could lose my job." For a moment, Dean felt a tad guilty; his brother already looked bad enough to almost consider dropping the entire thing. But lives were at stake here. "Thank you," he said earnestly as the young woman pulled out a pen and began scribbling away on a post-it note. "Obviously you can't get in now, too many tourists around, but around one or so this morning there won't be a lot of security around. Should be good then. And hot or not, if you guys get me fired, I'm coming after your asses." With a look of anger in her soft, brown eyes. The brothers nodded, thanked the girl, and quickly left the premises, Dean unable to resist a grin. The Winchester Charm strikes again.

XXX

"Well, that was easy," Dean muttered to himself, as he slid inside the building from the window he had jimmied. The brothers had scoped the place earlier that day, disguised as representatives from the alarm company, and Sam had used some of the hacking tricks he had learned from Ash to scramble the alarm system. Following him, Sam nodded in agreement, sliding the window back in to place carefully. "You telling me." He handed his brother a flashlight and switched on his own, grateful that there would be no guards at least in the archive room. "Let's go."

Carefully, the brothers crept through the darkness, the beams of their flashlights casting eerie glows in the dust covered room. The place was a little cramped, shelves upon shelves of boxes, folders, binders, and heavy books, all filled to capacity with stories of the past. Unfortunately, Haley knew of the room where the records were held, but not the exact shelf. Great. This was looking up to be a long night. With a sigh, Sam pulled out a box and lifted the led, sorting through the massive amount of files crammed inside. Beside him, Dean did the same, scanning through the contents in search of death records. Thirty minutes of searching passed, then an hour, with no success. Sam was clearly becoming agitated (a rare feat for Dean's geeky little brother), scanning page after page with no success. He knew that this could take a while, he'd been researching term papers that had taken weeks, but still…

"Wait a minute." Dean's whispered voice could be heard from across the small room. "Think I found something, Sammy." Dean was leafing through an ancient volume, squinting in the dim light as he scanned the information on the page. In seconds Sam was at his side, peering over his shoulder. "What is it?"

"Huge raid by the native people around 990 AD," Dean explained, as Sam scanned the contents of the page with interest. Whole village was burned to the ground, but not before the victims were stabbed in the belly. With that spear you were talking about." He frowned as he read further. "Problem is this happened to the entire village, not just our spirit."

"So it could really be anyone." Sam sighed in frustration. At least he wasn't getting nauseous (at least, for the moment, thank God for small mercies) but this wasn't exactly a preferable alternative. He pulled the pages out of the document (cringing at the thought of destroying it; necessary or otherwise it still bothered Sam when artifacts were ruined, even if for a worthy cause) and slipping it into his coat pocket. He'd have a massive amount of research to do in the morning.

"Hey!" A gruff voice startled the Winchesters and they froze. "What the hell are you two doing here?" Sam cursed inwardly, tried to come up with a legit excuse on the top of his head and coming up empty. Beside him, Dean's only pathetic contribution was a failed "research project?" The man behind the voice then came into view, fairly tall, muscular, with a look of pure rage in his beady, blue eyes. "At two in the goddamned morning? Nice try, boys, but maybe next time you should come up with a more believable excuse."

"Look, we're on our way out now, we're sorry we bothered you." Sam had regained his composure by this time. He gestured to Dean, who nodded in agreement. But he couldn't help but add a snarky remark: "lovely place here." The guard ignored the comment. "You better be. And if I ever catch you boys here again you'll be damn sorry, let me tell you that."

"Of course." Sam suddenly paused, alert. The temperature in the stifling room had suddenly dropped. Beside him, Dean was already one step ahead, gun drawn, ignoring the look of surprise on the guard's face. "You better drop that, boy," he snarled, his own weapon ready. "Or you'll have a few more problems to worry about than just breaking and entering." Dean ignored him, and Sam had his own Taurus in readiness, eyes scanning the room for any sign of spirit activity. How the possibility of the ghost haunting both the street and the room was possible failed to cross his mind at the moment.

"Dude, trust me, a break in is about to be the last of your problems," Dean growled, following Sam's lead by searching his surroundings for any sign of the homicidal ghost. "Now you better let us do our damn jobs before somebody gets hurt."

Sam opened his mouth to agree with his brother; but no words escaped from beneath his throat. Before he could say a word, the sound of a gunshot rang out into the night.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: A huge thanks to mandancie, deanstheman, LilyBolt, mb64, and applepieisnice for their recent reviews. A big thanks also to those who have read, followed, and/or favorited this story. You guys are awesome! And as always, I don't own **_**Supernatural,**_** all rights reserved.**

**Chapter 7**

"Dude, trust me, a break in is about to be the last of your problems," Dean growled at the security guard, following Sam's lead by searching his surroundings for any sign of the homicidal ghost. "Now you better let us do our damn jobs before somebody gets hurt."

Sam opened his mouth to agree with his brother; but no words escaped from beneath his throat. Before he could say a word, the sound of a gunshot rang out into the night.

For a moment, Sam froze. All hunter instincts gone in what seemed like the blink of an eye; the sound of a weapon crashing to the floor echoed in the stillness of the room, the sound seemingly heightened to maximum capacity. _Oh God, not Dean. Please don't let it be Dean…_ And, as if to answer his own question, Sam heard several panicked curses, but they weren't coming from his brother.

"DEAN!" In an instant Sam was at his brother's side, fumbling in the darkness . "Grab the flashlight!" he barked, and the guard stood frozen where he was, suddenly no longer the tough guy he had been a few minutes earlier. "I'm sorry," he rambled, "he had a gun and I thought he was going to shoot me…"

"Get me a flashlight NOW!" Sam was trying to hold the panic in his voice. Not only was Dean hurt (and how badly hurt, he had no freaking _clue_) but Casper the Viking Ghost was still roaming around somewhere. In the commotion he had vanished, but in no time, Sam knew, the spirit would return, and extremely pissed off to boot.

"Sammy?" Sam was relieved to hear his brother's voice, albeit hissing in pain. At least Dean was alive (Sam tried not to mentally add the mental afterthought, _for now_). "Yeah, Dean, I'm here." Finally the security guard had produced the flashlight, and Sam directed him to aim it until he could find the bullet wound; sure enough, the beam soon landed on its target; thank God, a seemingly left shoulder. A few inches to the left…well, Sam didn't even want to _think _of that. "You'll be fine," he said instead, distracting him from the _what might have been's_. "You were hit in the shoulder. Nothing we haven't handled before."

"Yeah, 'just a hit in the shoulder' Dean muttered, wincing in pain. "You want it, Sam? You can have it." Sam grinned slightly in spite of himself. At least his brother was back to his usual snarky self.

The flickering of the flashlight beams returned Sam back to more pressing matters at hand.

"Okay, listen up." To the now bewildered guard. "We need to get the hell out of here now. There's a seriously pissed off ghost here and trust me, it's not about to play nice." The portly man, as expected, shot Sam a look mixed with fright, disbelief, and even a hint of amusement, but Sam quickly dismissed him. "I don't care if you believe me or not, you're taking my brother to our car and keeping him there. There's a first aid kit in the back seat. I need you to keep an eye on him while I take care of this."

"Hell no!" Dean's voice interrupted. "You're not taking care of this alone!"

"Dean, there's no time to argue. You can't go after this thing with a bum shoulder. Trust me, I'll be fine." Dean opened his mouth to reply, and wisely snapped it closed. Sam was right. It could be dangerous to hunt in this condition. "Fine," he grumbled. "But if you're not back in thirty minutes I'm coming in, bad arm or not. You hear me?"

Reluctantly Sam agreed, and after providing a crash course on how to dispel pissed off ghosts, the still rather bewildered guard led Dean out of the room to safety. Luck had held out for the hunter, and the spirit had held off during the last few minutes, but shortly after Dean and the guard had left, the spirit reappeared. But not as the charred, horrific mess that Sam had witnessed earlier; instead, a beautiful woman, dressed in the long, simple garments worn by the Nordic settlers, he honey blonde hair pinned in two thick braids, cascading along her shoulders. She looked at Sam, blue-green eyes pleading, the traces of tears along her pale, translucent cheeks. She beckoned to him, one slender finger curled as she drew him closer. Not a vengeful spirit, but a lost soul. Wanting to help, to end the violence. Our spirit's husband? Lowering his weapon slightly, Sam followed the ghostly woman to another corner of the room, where yet another set of records were waiting, the heavy volumes covered in a thick layer of dust. Without a word, she pointed at the heavy tome, watching as Sam pulled it from the shelf and placed it on the small, wooden table.

The book was massive. With several families recorded within the faded, yellowed pages. A good start, but still a long ways to go. "Can you help me?" he asked the spirit softly. "Help me find out who you are. Help me end this." As if in answer to his question, a gust of wind filled the space, sending a faint chill along Sam's spine. The pages of the book fluttered wildly in the wind, finally settling on a page near the end of the volume. Four different Nordic families were documented in cursive. Sam looked up, about to ask for further help, but suddenly the temperature began to climb. As expected, the ghost had vanished.

XXX

"So this ghost chick actually led you to our bad guy? Awesome." Dean gritted his teeth in pain as Sam dug around his shoulder, looking to dislodge the stubborn bullet. The guard (who had fortunately dropped any ideas of charging the boys with trespassing following the shooting incident) had stopped the bleeding with the help of a tourniquet, added a little peroxide to clean the entry. "Sorry, man," Sam apologized, "I know this part sucks."

"Understatement of the year, Sam." Dean let out another little hiss as Sam successfully wedged the bullet between his tweezers. "Got it." Seconds later, the clink of the spent bullet landing in a coffee mug could be heard, and Dean let out a little sigh of relief. "Don't care how many times, getting shot fucking _sucks._"

"You were lucky, Dean," Sam muttered as he cleaned the wound and placed a sterile bandage overtop, securing it with medical tape. "There. Good as new and ready to hit on more women at the bar."

"As if I wasn't before," Dean grinned, swallowing the last of his whiskey. He leaned back in bed, watching as Sam cleared the medical supplies away and reached for his own drink. Settling on the bed opposite his brother, he downed half the glass in one swallow before continuing. It had been a long, stressful night.

"So, this ghost chick, guessing she's the wife? Pissed off that hubby is going all Travis Bickle?" Sam nodded, pulling out the book to the pages he'd carefully marked before leaving the settlement. "Looks like," he answered, scanning the text carefully. He rubbed his aching temple with a sigh; dawn was peering in through the motel window; he hadn't slept in hours, he was surprisingly hungry (and vastly relieved that he hadn't had any episodes about Jess and his mother as of late), and really wanted nothing but a hot shower and bed. But people were still dying, and the perpetrator wasn't about to stop any time soon. "There are four families the ghost showed me," he said instead, yawning in spite of himself. "The Erikssons, the Frederiksons, the Gunnarssons, and theKjærstads. All had a wife and at least one child."

"Sam, you need to sleep." Dean, his own voice rather heavy due to the effects of his several glasses of Jack Daniels, interrupted Sam. "You're exhausted. No way you're going to help anyone out if you pass out during the research."

_Or on the hunt,_ Sam thought bitterly, but wisely said nothing. He had been on top of things tonight, Dean had seemed to have regained his confidence in him, but those last few words had stung a little. But it was true; Sam was exhausted, physically as well as emotionally. A few hours of shut-eye would do wonders for them both. "Fine," he acknowledged, marking his place with a Kleenex and closing the heavy volume. "But just a few hours. Nothing more."

"Good." Dean's voice was already slurred as he drifted off to sleep. With a sigh, Sam slipped off his heavy boots and collapsed on his bed, without bothering to change or even slip under the covers. Minutes later, he was asleep.

XXX

_The motel is dark, quiet. Sam is laying on his bed, sipping warm beer and listening to the sounds of the rain outside, trickling along the dirty window panes. Dawn is breaking from beneath the heavy clouds, casting an eerie glow through the venetian blinds and forming shadows on the dirty carpet. The atmosphere is peaceful, and the heavy drops almost lull Sam to sleep._

_A blood drop gently plops first on his forehead, then on the hand resting casually on his chest. Sam opens his eyes, his brain still foggy from sleep and relaxation. Suddenly hazel eyes widen in horror; pinned on the ceiling, eyes wide and pleading, is not Jessica, or even his mother, but Dean. His mouth is open, he's speaking, but no sounds could be heard. Sam can only stare in horror, his half empty beer bottle crashing to the floor beside him as slowly the wound in his brother's abdomen widens. He looks down at Sam, his eyes pain filled, and even accusatory, as slowly the stench of smoldering flesh fills the room. Before any words can be said, Dean bursts into flame, the glow of the firelight casting eerie shadows on the ceiling._

XXX

Sam bolted out of bed, breathing heavily, face slick with sweat. He blinked, trying to regain his composure, his sense of reality, clutching the bedsheets for dear life as he struggled to control his breathing. Beside him, Dean was snoring away, blissfully unaware of Sam's latest nightmare. _Shit. This can't be happening._ He'd thought he'd been on the mend the last few days. For several minutes Sam sat there, breathing in and out, until finally he had calmed himself out of his panic attack. So the nightmares weren't getting any better. And now they included Dean. Would this how it would be every time his brother got hurt on a hunt, even a minor flesh wound? Imagine how horrific his nightmare would have been had Dean been more severely hurt. This had to stop. Now. Glancing one last time at his brother, Sam slid out of bed, dressed quickly, and settled down with his laptop and research. If keeping busy was the way to hold back his inner demons, then he would sure as fuck do that. He was a Winchester, damn it. After all, holding things back, bottling up emotions and hiding them in the back of his mind?

Well, that was all part of the Winchester family history.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: A huge thanks to LilyBolt, mb64, deanstheman, mandancie, and Bunnykiss for your recent, wonderful reviews! They're the inspiration that keeps me writing when sometimes I just don't feel like it! Thanks also to those who have favorited, followed, or just read this. It means a lot! And as always, I don't own **_**Supernatural,**_** just borrowing the boys!**

**Chapter 8**

Fortunately for Sam, if Dean had any idea that his brother had had another nightmare, one in which he was flambéed on the ceiling, no less, he didn't let on to Sam otherwise. A thought which frightened Sam on more levels than just the past events twisted in his subconscious. Was this a premonition like before? Like when he had witnessed Jessica's death for days before? Sam honestly believed that this time around, it really was just a dream, but considering Sam Winchester's track record, anything was possible. About half an hour after the youngest Winchester had dressed and left for a quick coffee and breakfast run (even though, in all honesty, Sam wasn't particularly hungry), Dean had awakened and at least acted none the wiser when he accepted his large black and breakfast burrito. In typical Sam fashion, he dug into research, trying to identify the mysterious woman who had helped him out the night before. Unfortunately, after the incident at the tourist site, there was no way that the Winchesters would regain access, no matter how often Dean flirted with the pretty young woman at the counter.

"What about museums?" Dean suggested between a mouthful of egg, sausage and cheese. "The way this place pushes the Viking crap I'm sure there's gotta be more than one tourist trap."

"Good thinking," Sam agreed, clicking on a search engine and typing furiously. A few moments later, several links to other museums related to the Nordic people popped up on screen. "Not really any useful museums, but there is Memorial University in St. John's. A little out of the way but we can see if we can set up a meeting with the head of history or something." A few minutes later, he tossed his phone on the counter and stretched. "We've got a meeting with the head of the history department tomorrow afternoon. Elizabeth Hamilton." He quickly finished his coffee and headed to pack his things. A drive would hopefully be the perfect distraction from his unsettling nightmare. "Anytime, Dean," he muttered, zipping his bag shut and reaching for his coat. Dean rolled his eyes and followed suit. Another reason for him to wish the nightmares would stop: maybe Sam wouldn't be as cranky. On second thought…

XXX

"The Vikings had originally attacked the natives around 1000 AD." Dr. Elizabeth Hamilton tucked a strand of honey blonde hair behind her ear as she led the Winchesters into a secluded section of the Memorial University library, her pumps clicking on the tiled floor with each step. Dean smiled, eyes lowering to her long, slender legs, only to hear a grunt coming from Sam. Little brothers. Fortunately, Dr. Hamilton didn't seem to notice, or at least care. "A few of the Skraelings managed to survive the initial attack, and shortly thereafter the indigenous people counter attacked, hence the killings of the Nordic people."

"Do you have any records of women with long hair, about your colour, around my brother's height, rather thin?"

"That description is rather vague. And why would you care about a particular person if your paper if your research is on the attacks?"

"Just want to make sure I have everything." Something Sam would have likely done even if he wasn't researching a hunt. The young woman nodded, leading Sam to another section around the corner from where they were. "There are some death records hiding around here somewhere, they include the physical description of the person in question. Maybe that will be helpful." She stopped before a shelf, scanned its contents, and finally pulled out a fairly thick volume, dust covered in its infrequent use. She handed the boys the work with a look of wariness in her eyes. "Please be careful. These documents are irreplaceable. If anything should happen to them…" her voice trailed off, clearly hinting the worst. "Of course," Dean agreed. "You can count on us." He looked like it was taking all the self-control he could muster not to salute her. "When you're finished please leave them with the librarian and she'll take care of the rest." The brothers nodded their thanks, and Elizabeth Hamilton turned on her heels. "If you need me I'll be in my office."

Alone at last, the boys set to work sifting through the massive pile of death records. The work was tedious; several hundred deaths, including those of natural causes or those who had passed away before and after the massacre. Sam closed his eyes briefly, trying to push aside thoughts of the charred victims as their homes burned around them.

_It's your fault, Sammy. You killed Mommy. I wish you hadn't even been born._

_You left me alone, Sam. You left me to die. I hate you._

_Scared of a little ghost, Sam? You're pathetic. Can't understand what Dad wanted me to protect you. _

The last thought, loud and clear in Dean's gravelly voice, made Sam freeze in mid-turn. Fuck. Maybe he couldn't do this case after all.

"Sam, you ok? You're looking a little pale."

"I'm fine, Dean." God, he could still hear his brother's voice, taunting him worse than his images of Jessica or even his mother had ever done. "Come on, there's more stuff to look at."

"Stop lying to me, Sam." In a voice surprisingly void of anger. "I get that this is bothering you, I really do, but you need to focus. I can't have you freaking out on me on the job. I can't have you get hurt." He paused a moment, as if weighing the pros and cons of initiating one of his dreaded chick flick moments. Finally deciding that the benefits were too much to pass up, he continued. "It's my job to protect you. And I can't lose you. Not after….well, you know."

Any traces of doubt caused by the latest vision, or hallucination, or whatever it was, was gone in an instant at the sound of his brother's voice. The soft, gentle voice of the brother who loved him, who would die for him, hell, _had_ died for him. And would be more than willing to do it again, in a heartbeat. Anything for Sammy. Sam swallowed the lump in his throat, and simply nodded. "I know." That was all Dean needed to hear. He nodded in slight satisfaction, and turned back to the documents at his side. "Moving on."

XXX

Several hours had passed, with no record matching the physical description of the phantom woman. The brothers were achy, tired, and nearly to the point of wanting to throw the papers to the wall, priceless artifacts or otherwise. Sam, in all his love for all things academic, was nearly at the point of doing something equally drastic when one woman's name stood out from the page.

"Just a sec," he murmured, pulling out his list of names from his jeans pocket. Carefully he read through the names, scanning the description on the certificate as he went. After a moment, smiled. "Gotcha."

"Finally." Dean rubbed the back of his tired neck. Research had never been his thing. Too tedious. More of a Geek Boy endeavour. "What've we got?"

"Helga Frederiksson," Sam read, "aged twenty-nine. Wife of Odin, age thirty, mother of a newborn son. No name provided. Her physical description matches the spirit perfectly, even down to the braids in her hair." He smiled grimly. "At least now we have a name."

"That's if she's our homicidal ghost's wife," Dean countered. "But it is the closes lead we've had. Don't understand how she got out without being burned herself."

"Guess she wasn't quite dead, managed to crawl out."

"Or maybe she was kept alive."

XXX

_Helga can feel the smoke filling her lungs, the pain excruciating in her belly. She can feel the flames tickling at her feet, the heat unbearable; the stench of burning flesh fills her nostrils, and she can feel her breakfast threaten to come back up. The little home is deathly silent, no moans from her husband or cries from her child. They are dead, she concludes, and tears spill from her eyes, stinging from the acrid plumes of smoke._

"_Help me," she croaks faintly, one hand outstretched. She coughs, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. A figure towers over her, gazes at Helga with sympathy in his dark eyes, and gently lifts her from the floor. He speaks to his companion in a foreign tongue, who nods in agreement. Helga would have felt fear if not for the weakness, unconsciousness threatening to overcome her. "Please," she whispers faintly, closing her eyes. The men lead her past her husband's body, out the door, to a secluded spot behind her burning home. The two men continue their one sided conversation, a thought which, even in dying, frustrates Helga. "No," she continues weakly. "Save…baby."_

"_Your child is dead." The first man finally speaks in her native tongue. "We shall put you out of your misery." Before Helga can even grieve her family, she feels the cold of steel as it slices her throat, draining what little life she has clung to._

XXX

The drive back to the motel was increasingly quiet, and not only because of the treacherous roads. Sam still couldn't erase the last, horrible nightmare from his mind, or the images of the Frederiksson family. He had read shortly after identifying the family that Helga Frederiksson had been drug away from her home, throat slit, in what was actually considered a mercy killing. He shuddered, trying to push the horrible images away. Beside him, Dean was staring straight ahead, not even humming his beloved Metallica as he maneuvered the narrow cliffside roads. Sam sighed, looked out the window at the passing ocean. The lull of the engine and the warmth of the heater, including the rattle of Dean's childhood Lego blocks, lulled him to sleep, one, fortunately, free from nightmares.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: First of all I want to thank you all for your patience in waiting for these updates! I've been super busy lately and when I do have free time I just want to veg! So thanks to all who haven't given up on this story! Also lots of love and thanks to the following for their recent reviews: mb64, mandancie, and LilyBolt. I truly appreciate your taking the time to share your thought! Thank you also to those who have favorited, followed, or just read this story. I truly appreciate it! And as always, I do not own **_**Supernatural, **_**and am in no way making any profit from these stories. Enjoy!**

**Chapter 9**

The moon was peeking from beneath thick clouds, casting an eerie, and yet still enchanting glow on the snow, the shadows of the bare tree branches stretching into nothingness, as if greedily reaching for the souls buried beneath the ancient grounds. The night was deathly silent, save the whistling of the cold North Shore wind and the crunch of boots on the hard snow. Huddling in the warm parkas Sam had insisted on splurging on, the Winchesters slowly made their way through the hallowed grounds, the beams of their flashlights scanning the darkness for any sight of the Frederiksson plot. Immediately after returning to their motel from their impromptu trip to St. John's, Sam had fired up the laptop. He was hoping to locate where Odin Frederiksson and his wife had been buried, mainly as a diversion. Sam Winchester, like his older brother, had his own coping methods when things got a little too hard to keep the brave face; in rare occasions, he'd follow his brother's example and turn to the bottle; shortly after Dean's confession of their father's dark secret, Sam had nearly spiralled into despair. Jess was gone; Madison dead by his own weapon; Ava was nowhere to be found, presumed dead. He had failed to save them. And so he had turned to the bottle, hoping to erase the memories of his failures and instead finding himself confronting his brother, begging him to kill him should his father's foreboding predictions come true. But after waking up with a killer hangover and feeling no better than he had before, decided to challenge that pent up energy into something productive.

And so, as an edgy Dean slept off his stressful drive back to the motel on roads with less than desirable travelling conditions, Sam pushed back his anxiety with hours of online surfing and scouring the texts they had managed to swipe from the library. Shortly before dawn, with his brother still snoring rather loudly in the corner, Sam had finally located a potential burial site for the Frederiksson family.

And so, that night, the brothers found themselves roaming one of the lesser known Viking burial sites. The cemetery was surprisingly large, with several rows of ancient stones lining the countryside like sentries waiting for command. Sam led the way, cursing inwardly at a particularly loud crunch. So much for the element of surprise. Behind him, Dean was already grumbling about the cold and the fact that, of course, the grave in question just _had_ to be the one farthest from the Impala. Sam rolled his eyes, aiming the beam of his flashlight on the engravings. None with the name Frederiksson. After several minutes with no results, with Sam beginning to question his research, the beam of Dean's flashlight landed on a particularly cracked headstone in the far corner, the name carved in the rock nearly hidden from view by several inches of snow. "Yhatzee," Dean murmured, wiping the snow from the stone to confirm. Sure enough, the name Odin Frederiksson was carved in the ancient headstone, the markings faded from time. Reaching for his shovel, Dean speared the frozen earth, grunting at the frozen soil. "Of course you had to pick a case in freaking Newfoundland, Sammy." He scanned his surroundings, eyes peeled for any sign of a pissed of Viking spirit before continuing. "Alright, let's get this show on the road."

The two dug in silence, and for the first little while, they were undisturbed. The ground was still frozen, not to mention covered with several inches of snow, the work difficult. In minutes both boys were sweating, and on the verge of removing their heavy parkas, regardless of the low temperatures. It wasn't until the brothers had dug about five feet below when the boys' makeshift EMF readers began to whine mercilessly. "Shit," Dean cursed, instinctively reaching for his piece. "We've got company."

Sure enough, Odin himself, his grotesque figure nearly invisible in the darkness of the night, appeared before the Winchesters. Quickly Dean fired off a shot, while Sam continued to dig franticly; within seconds, the spirit vanished amidst a cloud of smoke. "Dig faster, Sammy," Dean grunted, ever watchful for the vengeful spirit to make another sudden entrance. Sure enough, not a minute later, Odin reappeared, this time at his brother's shoulder. "Sam, look out!" Instinctively the younger Winchester ducked, and Dean fired another round; once again Odin vanished into the night.

"How much longer?"

"Almost there," Sam panted. There was a distinctive thud as metal blade met wooden coffin, and Sam let out a grim smile. "Found the coffin," he announced. "Just have to dig…"

Sam's voice was cut off by a startled cry as the spirit appeared before Sam, its blue eyes filled with hate and fury. Before Sam could react, the spectre shoved him viciously; the taller brother found himself hurling through the air, slamming against a neighbouring headstone. "SAMMY!" Dean yelled, and fired yet another shot at Odin. One thing was certain; the damn thing sure as hell didn't want to be sent to the afterlife. He hesitated a moment, waiting for the telltale sound of his brother, confirming if he was ok. When Sam answered weakly, Dean felt a wave of relief washing over him. Sam was alive. For now.

"Cover me!" Dean yelled, grabbing one of the discarded shovels and picking up where his brother had left off. Fortunately, most of the grave had been unearthed. Regretting leaving his brother, but aware that he needed to get the damn spirit ganked pronto, Dean quickly continued Sam's task, eyes ever watchful of Sam. Behind him, he could hear another shot echo in the night, and the elder Winchester knew that Sam was back in action. _Good. Crazy dreams or not, the kid is damn good. _

He knew he was there before it had even materialized; Dean felt the telltale electricity of the approaching spirit and instinctively knew he was in trouble. He dropped the shovel, reaching for his weapon; but it was too late; his green eyes widened in shock as he felt a sharp pain in his stomach; faintly he could hear Sam calling his name in horror, his brother's voice seemingly distant, as if he were not only ten feet from him. He lips opened to speak, trying to warn Sam to stay back, just get the hell out of dodge before he becomes shish kebob, but his voice was barely above a faint croak; his legs gave way beneath him and he collapsed to the ground, hands still reaching for his weapon. He was a Winchester, after all; if he was going down, he was taking the whole goddamned crew with him. But before he could fire a shot, he heard the familiar _whoosh_ as Odin's spirit vanished in a shower of sparks and flame. The last thing Dean Winchester heard before slipping into darkness was the hurried sound of boots crunching hurriedly on the snow.

XXX

The sight of Odin's spirit stabbing his brother made Sam's pounding heart nearly skip a beat. For a moment, he stood there, frozen in horror at the sight, his brother's name slipping from trembling lips. Fragments of his nightmare from a few days earlier flashed through his mind, flashing like a bolt of lightning across a summer sky. _Dean, pinned to the ceiling, bloodied and burning, the greedy tendrils of flame greedily consuming him…_ And then, in a second, the hunter John Winchester had trained him to be suddenly took over. He wasn't losing his brother. Not again. Legs pumping despite the splitting headache from his encounter with Leif Eriksson's headstone, Sam rushed to the opened grave, grabbing for the salt and lighter fluid in his pocket. Fortunately, Dean had managed to completely unearth the plot before his encounter, and Sam quickly salted and burned the remains. In seconds, Odin Frederkisson was no more, the glow of the flames briefly casting a faint glow in the darkness before fading completely.

Sam was at his brother's side before Odin's spirit had completely vanished to whatever afterlife awaited him. He groped in the darkness for a wound, heart sinking at tacky blood saturating his gloved hand. _Oh god. This is bad. This can't be happening. Not now. _But the words coming from his mouth, words he was deathly afraid were lies, were comforting, belying the gravity of the situation. "It's ok, I've got you, Dean. I'm here. I'm here…" _Funny how I've heard those same words from Dean so many times. _Blinking back tears which almost immediately froze on his eyelids in the cold, Sam fumbled for his brother's neck, checking for a pulse and fearing that he wouldn't find one. It was there, thank God, but thready, unstable. _This can't be happening. No. Not now. _Despite the cold, Sam pulled off his heavy coat, pressing the material against his brother's wound. "Hang in there, Dean. Don't give up on me now, big brother."

"CAS!" Cradling his brother's unconscious form in his arms, he found himself staring at the heavens above, watching as the moon disappeared beneath the clouds, yelling for Castiel; begging him to come. The angel had saved them before. He'd pulled both Dean and himself from the pit; had resurrected Bobby in Stull Cemetery that horrible afternoon when he'd sealed Lucifer's cage. He sat there a moment, waiting; and when no telltale flutter of wings rewarded him of his prayer, Sam lifted the limp form and rushed to the waiting Impala, trying in vain to control the sickening fear that this time, his big brother, childhood hero, and best friend wouldn't make it.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Thanks again to mb64, LilyBolt, deanstheman, and mandancie for their recent reviews! Also a huge thanks to those who have read, followed, or added this story to your favorites list. It really means so much to know that people are enjoying this! And as always, I don't own **_**Supernatural,**_ **just borrowing the boys. **

**Chapter 10**

It was the longest drive of his life. Struggling to keep control of the Impala on snow packed roads, as his brother lay possibly dying in the back seat, Sam Winchester felt that each passing second could very well be the last for Dean. Normally one to talk, even while in pain, the older hunter had been deathly quiet, face tinged in a ghastly pallor. He was dying, honest to God _dying,_ and it was Sam's fault. If only he hadn't let the damn ghost knock him out; if only he hadn't found the damn cemetery in the first place; if only he had been at top form…

Granted, Sam was rational enough to come to terms with the fact that the first two "what if's" were, in fact, ridiculous scenarios. Shit happens sometimes, and it had been necessary to find Odin's grave and salt and burn the remains, even if only to bring the tortured spirit to peace. But it _was_ entirely Sam's fault that he had been distracted as of late. That his nightmares had left him feeling both physically and mentally exhausted.

That if he had actually listened to his brother earlier none of this would have happened.

Sam gritted his teeth as he hurried as fast as the hazardous roads would allow to the closest hospital. No. He wasn't going to let Dean down. Not again. For a moment those few events Dean had actually told him about his soullessness began to swim through his brain, haunting him with each revolution of the Impala's tires: Dean's abduction by fairies (as absurd as it had sounded, and under normal circumstances, Sam would have chuckled at the thought of badass Dean Winchester being abducted by fucking Tinker Bell, but the situation had lost its humour at the moment); the fact that during said abduction, Sam had done shit all to find his brother, instead opting to get laid in his motel room, as if Dean _wasn't_ missing and perhaps dead; and worst of all, allowing his own brother to be turned, to become a goddamned_ vampire_ as if it was a regular occurrence. No. He had let his brother down in the past few months more than he had in his lifetime. And he was _not_ going to again.

"Hang in there, Dean," he murmured; his hands were aching from his white knuckle grip on the Impala's steering wheel, his head pounding from his encounter with the Nordic headstone, but the only thoughts on his mind were for his brother. A quick glance in the rear view seemed to emphasise just how dire the situation was and Sam pushed a little harder on the gas, only cringing slightly when the muscle car fishtailed along a turn. He knew he had to slow down; he would not be doing his brother any favours by totalling the car on the way to the hospital. But at the sight of his brother's limp body in the backseat, the young hunter was instead tempted to accelerate. He was running out of time.

"Almost there, Dean. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I promise." But, as he felt moisture forming once again from his hazel eyes, Sam was deathly afraid that, once again, he was about to let his brother down. This time, in a way that would be irreparable.

XXX

Sam sat in one of the uncomfortable plastic waiting room chairs, face buried in trembling hands. Dean had been in surgery for hours now; it was well after nine in the morning and the tiny room was already beginning to fill up with anxious patients, at first a slow trickle, but soon in fairly large groups, until the space was over half full. Around him, children were screaming as parents tried desperately to calm their cries and soothe away tears. A little girl of about two, who had no idea of the gravity of the situation her loved ones were in, was running around the little prison, while her harried looking father tried to calm her down, eventually leaving with the laughing toddler in tow. The sight was ghoulish; in a room where death seemed to be lurking around every corner, a child's laughter permeated. Sam rubbed his aching temples, fighting down nausea that was not only caused by the constant pounding in his skull.

"Mr. Smith?"

Sam looked up, heart nearly stopping in his chest at the sight of the middle aged doctor. Her brown hair, already slightly tinted with hints of silver, was pinned in a tight bun, her soft brown eyes hidden behind a pair of stylish glasses. Her brass nameplate read Dr. J. Miller. In her hands was a clipboard, likely containing Dean's medical chart. But despite the stern demeanor, Sam thought he could see sympathy in her soft, chocolate irises. He tried to read her facial expression, hoping to see some form of good news, but despite the kindness in her eyes, Dr. Miller's expression was neutral.

"How's my brother? Will he be ok?" Hardly daring to ask the question, as horrible images flashed through his brain; Sam closed his eyes, and immediately traces of his horrible nightmare, of Dean burning on the ceiling, haunted him. Had the dream been a premonition after all? If so, had Sam potentially stopped it from happening, as he had his brother's death by Max's hand all those years ago? Or was this a complete coincidence?

Or would someone try again, hoping to get it right the next time? Sam shuddered, trying to push the horrific images from his mind. He could hear Dr. Miller's voice somehow through the fog and quickly Sam blinked, the disturbing images temporarily forgotten. Noticing that the young man had been temporarily distracted, the doctor gently touched the young man's shoulder, and tried again.

"Dean did manage to survive the surgery and is now in stable condition. The stab wound, fortunately, missed his spleen, but we did have to do extensive repairs on his stomach. We managed to stop the internal bleeding where the blade nicked a few internal organs, such as the kidney, but he isn't out of the woods yet. The next twenty-four hours will be crucial. I expect that there should be a full recovery, but it is important that I don't give you any false hope, son. Dean is lucky to be alive right now."

"May I see him?"

"Of course. But he likely will not be responsive. The anesthesia still hasn't worn off, so he should be unconscious for the next few hours or so. Follow me." Feeling slight relief at the doctor's prognosis, Sam followed Dr. Miller along a series of hallways, finally stopping in front of a private room at the end of the hall. The doctor rattled off the visiting hours, checked her patient's vitals, and hurried out the door, ready for the next patient. Before she could even disappear from sight, Sam was at his brother's bedside, fighting back tears. Dean was still dangerously pale, though a faint hint of colour was forming slightly on his cheeks; he seemed to be breathing on his own, much to Sam's relief, but there was no doubt that his indestructible older brother looked so weak and helpless. The tears he tried to hide slid down his cheek as Sam gently grasped his brother's hand and gave it a tender squeeze. As expected, there was no response, and Sam felt his heart sink. He hadn't really expected anything, but there had still been that hope that maybe Dean would be coming around.

"God, I hate hospitals," he muttered through his tears, wiping them away with his free hand. "Hate that antiseptic, well, hospital-like smell. Though the nurses are hot. So you need to wake up just so you can hit on them." A faint chuckle followed by a sniff. "I'm so sorry, Dean. This is all my fault. You were right. I haven't been on my A game lately. It's just…those deaths reminded me so much of Mom and Jess. Especially Jess. And I was finally at the point where I could look at her picture without feeling that emptiness. And then, reading about Odin's victims seemed to just bring them back."

Sam paused, half expecting Dean to open his eyes, reassure him that everything would be fine, as always. Instead Sam was greeting by the steady beeping of the heart monitor.

"You know, I've been thinking a lot of my time without a soul. I'd done some pretty horrible things. Hurt a lot of innocent people. And after this, I almost wish I was still like that, at least a little. 'Cause then I wouldn't have been bothered by this fucking case in the first place and you'd be awake right now." Sam closed his eyes, realizing that he had practically echoed his father's words from years earlier…

XXX

_The tension in John Winchester's hospital room was heavy, leaden. Shoulders slumped, Sam stormed into the room, eyes dark with anger. His father had lied to him; well, that wasn't much of a surprise, Sam had been kept in the dark on more occasions than he could remember ever since he was old enough to understand, anything from where Dad went every night to why the brothers had to change schools on what seemed like a monthly basis. But this, to lie about this, well, it was too much. Not only did John have the gall to potentially humiliate himself in front of Bobby with false information (something which would have infuriated Sam under normal circumstances) but he was ignoring Dean, his son who was dying at this very minute, to face off against the Yellow Eyed fucking Demon. But why should Sam have been surprised? It had always been like John Winchester to focus on the hunt before his own family._

"_You're quiet."_

_Fuming, Sam through the heavy duffle with a little too much vim on the hospital bed, the contents landing directly on his father's leg. John winced slightly in pain, but Sam didn't care. Why should he? His father didn't deserve any sympathy._

"_Did you think I wouldn't find out?" The edge in Sam's voice prompted John to arch his eyebrows slightly. Here it comes. "What are you talking about?" John lied, looking up at his son, his usually gentle face white and shaking with fury._

"_That stuff from Bobby, you don't use it to ward off a demon, you use it to summon one." Sam looked down at his father, the anger in his hazel eyes mingling with hurt and worry for his brother's wellbeing. He could feel the angry words slipping from his tongue, the intense anger pumping through his veins like a powerful drug. Somehow, John had managed to slip a word or two in edgewise._

"_I have a plan."_

"_That's exactly my point! Dean is dying and you have a plan!"_

_The shouting match continued, surprisingly uninterrupted. Within moments John's voice rose, the two squaring off in the tiny hospital room. "This demon killed your mother," he yelled, pointing an accusing finger at his youngest son, "killed your girlfriend. You begged me to be a part of this hunt! Now if you'd killed that damned thing when you had the chance, none of this would have happened."_

"_It was possessing you Dad," Sam protested, "I would have killed you too."_

"_Yeah, and your brother would be awake right now."_

XXX

"_Now if you'd killed that damned thing when you had the chance, none of this would have happened."_

His father's words, uttered so long ago, echoed through Sam's brain as he sat at his brother's bedside, still holding his limp hand and staring blindly out the window. His father had been right. Not about tricking him into gathering his list of ingredients, items needed which would ultimately lead to his father's death. But he had had the chance to take that shot, to end things with the Yellow Eyed sonofabitch once and for all. Because not only had his decision ultimately led to the car accident which nearly claimed Dean's life, but had the demon been killed that fateful night, Sam would have never died in Cold Oak; and Dean would have never made that deal; Sam wouldn't have needed to avenge his death by killing Lilith; the Apocalypse would have been averted.

All because he wouldn't take that one shot. His father had died regardless, and years of heartache would have been averted. Dean would have never forgiven him…

And he would still never forgive himself. Because despite all the evidence screaming at him that taking the shot would have been the best option, Sam knew that he would have never done it. Would never kill his father, his own flesh and blood.

Sam sighed, looking down at his brother's still form. "Guess history repeats itself, huh?" he whispered, never releasing his grip on Dean's frail hand. "You've gotta wake up, man. Let me actually apologize to you. I'm so sorry, man." And as a single tear gently plopped on the thin, hospital blanket, Sam felt his heart nearly skip a beat to feel a slight pressure beneath his palm.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: As always, a huge thanks to deanstheman, mb64, and LilyBolt for your recent, awesome reviews. You all motivate me to keep going, so thanks so much for the encouragement! Thanks also to those who have read, followed, or added this to your favorites list. It means so much! And, no I don't own **_**Supernatural,**_** regrettably.**

**Chapter 11**

"Dean?" Sam felt his heart skip a beat at the feel of his brother's hand, oh so gently, faintly, squeezing his own. A mix of emotions overwhelmed Sam, like a wave: anxiety, fear, grief (for what if he truly _was_ imagining that familiar pressure?) and hope. Hope that maybe his brother was going to be ok after all; that he would open those mossy green eyes and mutter "heya Sammy" like old times. For a moment, all that hope began to wash away like the ebbing tide; several minutes had passed without further movement from Dean, and Sam began to question whether he had imagined his brother's gentle squeeze after all.

"Come on, man, open your eyes. I know you're there, big brother, just open your eyes…"

And there it was again! Another faint grasp of Sam's shaking hand, and once again hope trumped despair as Sam looked down expectantly at Dean. The elder Winchester's eyes fluttered, as if he were somehow trying to pierce the veil between unconsciousness and wakefulness. "That's it, Dean. I'm here. It's me. It's Sammy. C'mon, man, wake up for me, we've still got work to do…"

XXX

Fog. So thick, impenetrable, and inviting. Dean feels comfort in the darkness; for to sleep was comforting, filled with pleasant dreams. He is standing in a familiar looking kitchen, the smells of apples and cinnamon permeating the comforting space. The quaint little kitchen reminds Dean of love, laughter, good food, and safety. The young man smiles to see his mother, beautiful as always, standing at the island, chopping away at vegetables for a homemade stew; a deep dish apple pie is baking in the oven, and a pot of something, maybe boiled potatoes, is singing away on the stove. It's everything Dean has always wanted, and yet hardly remembers. But the cheery atmosphere and mouth-watering aromas are nothing compared to the sight of Mary Winchester, her blonde hair pinned in a messy ponytail, dressed in a frilly white blouse and blue jeans, a massive floral patterned apron tied around her waist.

"Mom?" Dean's voice is barely above a whisper.

"Hey baby," Mary smiles, looking up from her neat row of chopped carrots. "What are you doing here, love?"

"Mom..." Dean stares dumbfounded as Mary sits the knife on the counter and walks over to her son, placing one soft hand on his cheek and gazing into his green eyes. "You're beautiful," he murmurs, voice gruff as he chokes back the lump in his throat. Mary smiles, not saying a word, still gazing lovingly at her first born. Dean doesn't care; he could stare at her for hours, drinking in the beauty of her green eyes, the same emerald shade as his, the gentleness of her smile…

"You need to go back, son," she says, a hint of sadness in her voice. Confused, Dean blinks. "What do you mean, Mom?" A pause. "Am I…_dead?_"

"No, Dean, you're not dead. It's not your time. Sammy needs you." Mary places a gentle kiss on Dean's forehead, and slowly backs away, her fingers gently brushing against Dean's cheek before slipping away. "Go back to your brother, honey. He's waiting." Slowly the vision before Dean starts to fade away, and Dean blinks again, not wanting to lose his mother again. Table, stove, island, all vanish before his very eyes, until just Mary stands before him, surrounded by darkness. "Go now, Dean," she whispers, smiling at her son for the final time. "Be with Sammy. Go to your brother."

Darkness. And then another voice, so familiar, filled with hope and a hint of fear, a voice as comforting as that of his beloved mother.

"Come on, man, open your eyes. I know you're there, big brother, just open your eyes…"

Slowly the fog begins to dissipate and Dean tries to open his eyes. They feel heavy, and it takes so much effort, but he tries. For Sam. For his little brother. He can hear the voice of his mother echoing in his brain, like a snippet of song that just won't be forgotten, and he tries again. He can feel pressure on his hand, Sammy's hand, and it takes all the energy he can muster to give it a reassuring squeeze. With all his remaining energy, Dean slowly opens his eyes…

XXX

"Dean!" Sam could hardly control the emotion in his voice when he saw his brother's familiar jade irises looking up at him, unseeing at first, adjusting to the light. Dean blined, the brightness painful initially, but soon opened them again, slightly wider this time. Before him he recognized the familiar mop of brown hair and hazel eyes, bright with unshed tears. "S'mmy?" he murmured weakly.

"Thank God, man," Sam breathed, brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead. "I thought…" he paused, turning his head from his brother for a moment, blinking away the evidence of the tears that were about to overflow. "It was a close one."

"What happened?" Closing his eyes again, the bright lights causing his skull to pound in agony. Sam reached for a glass of ice chips and carefully fed them to his brother, who accepted them gratefully. The cool ice felt refreshing on his raw throat. "Our friend wanted to make you his next victim. Stabbed you in the gut. Luckily I finished the salt and burn before he could…." Sam closed his eyes, unable to finish the sentence. But Dean nodded in understanding, shuddering at the potential outcome. God, it must have been hard for the kid. Especially considering his nightmares.

"Dean, I'm so sorry. This shouldn't have happened. If I'd been in top form this never would've happened. You could've been…"

"Sam…"

"No, Dean. Let me finish. You've been telling me all week that I haven't been up to this, but I wouldn't listen. And it almost got you killed. It's just.." Sam sighed, slipping the plastic spoon back in the plastic cup of ice chips. "It's just that I'd let you down so many times in the last few months. When I was, well," Sam hesitated, shuddering inwardly at the reminder of his days as RoboSam. "Well, you know. I just figured that if I could handle this hunt, you'd trust me again. Like that turned out well." Sam laughed bitterly.

"Sam, you're an idiot," Dean rasped, patting his brother affectionately on the hand. "I'd trust you with my life. What happened when you were soulless was _not your fault._ Fuck, man, I thought you'd already known that."

"I'm a Winchester," Sam smiled wryly. "Since when do we just forgive ourselves like that? It should be written on our family crest for godssake."

Dean smiled weakly. Of course the kid had a point. Storing their crap was something both brothers were particularly skilled at, as much as the job itself. And if Dean were in his brother's shoes, he would have done the same damn thing.

"Look Sam, you don't need to prove yourself. You're the second best hunter out there. You're brilliant. And what happened out there last night wasn't your fault. Sometimes shit happens. And you saved me ass, right? I'm here." Sam nodded slightly, but looked far from convinced. Perhaps he had saved his brother, but if he had been more diligent, none of this would have happened. You play with fire, eventually you're gonna get burned. Noticing the look of skepticism on his brother's face, Dean sighed, closing his eyes. God, he was tired. Talking alone was quite an effort ; Dean didn't want to shut out his brother, especially considering how worried he had been, but his weakened body was avidly protesting consciousness. Catching on, Sam nodded, set the plastic cup gently on the bedside table. "It's ok, man, get some rest. I'll finish this one off on my own."

"Hm?" Dean mumbled sleepily. Hadn't they just ganked Odin Frederikkson? Fuck, if he'd been stabbed in the gut for nothing… But Sam seemed to sense the confusion. "No, not our kleptomaniac. I mean Helga. She might have just gone to the other side after her husband, but I want to be sure. Should be an easy salt and burn. You just rest up and I'll take care of it." Dean nodded his head, too weary to protest and Sam smiled, patting his brother gently on the shoulder. "I won't be long. I'll be back as soon as it's done. I think I know where her grave is." He smiled, the first genuine one since before arriving in Newfoundland, and headed to the door, giving a silent prayer of thanks that his older brother had lived to see another hunt.

XXX

It was a common occurrence for spirits to show up impromptu during a salt and burn. Many were far from thrilled with the prospect of what John Winchester had simply described as "ghost death", and were wont to put up quite the fight to remain in the realm of the living for as long as possible. Sam had been witness to that scenario on more than one occasion, and had just a few days earlier seen the potentially dangerous consequences. On other rare occasions, like that of Molly MacNamara , the spirit had no knowledge of having died, roaming the earth for years tormented. But never had Sam witnessed a spirit simply watching, waiting in the shadows.

As expected, Sam found Helga Frederikkson's grave beside her husband, in a joint plot. Though he had missed it at the time, directly under Odin's name was that of his wife, hidden by ice and snow. Initially, Sam had been hesitant to return; it was a blatant reminder of the night he had almost lost his brother, the large patch of blood still visible when the beam of his flashlight scanned the barren ground. For a moment, the young hunter almost turned around, hightailed it back to the Impala. Job or not, he wasn't sure if he could endure spending even a few minutes in that graveyard. _I could let someone else take this,_ he thought, _Bobby has enough contacts who wouldn't mind a simple salt and burn. Hell, they could make a trip out of it, maybe spend a few nights taking in the scenery. _But Sam knew that this would be ridiculous; Helga was not (at least, at the moment) a vengeful spirit, and to waste a trip across the border for something as minor as this would almost be insulting. After all, he was a perfectly qualified hunter, regardless of what had happened to Dean. Or at least, Dean thought so.

Sam sighed, stared into the darkness. He had a job to do, and dammit, he was going to do it. Slowly he made his way over to the open grave, adjusting the pack on his shoulder. And as he dropped it to the ground, reaching for the canister of salt, he saw her from the corner of his eye. Helga Frederikkson, as beautiful as ever, stood not ten feet from him, the skirt of her long dress and two golden braids billowing in the sudden gust of wind. For a moment, Sam stared, awestruck. But the woman simply nodded, smiling sadly, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. He nodded, suddenly empowered by the woman before him. Slowly he began the ritual (finding it odd that he didn't have to rush through the process in fear of an unfriendly encounter). And as the flames danced in the night, the spirit of Helga Frederikkson consumed by fire, Sam Winchester could have sworn that she had spoken to him. For carrying in the night wind, he clearly heard the words _thank you._


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: A huge thanks to mb64, mandancie and (even though the site was being temperamental and wouldn't let me see it) LilyBolt for your recent reviews. It means so much! You guys are awesome! Thanks also to those who have read, followed, or added this to your favorites list. **** And as always, I don't own **_**Supernatural,**_ **just borrowing the boys for a while!**

**Chapter 12 **

"Sam, for goddsakes I can get in the fucking car." Dean glared at the orderly as he slowly rose himself from the wheelchair, the young man gazing rather warily at his former patient. Frustrated, Sam rolled his eyes, glancing apologetically at the frazzled orderly. "Dean, you just got over being stabbed in the stomach. You can't rush these things, man." Dean grumbled, but begrudgingly accepted his brother's help into the passenger side of the awaiting Impala. After shooting the young man another sympathetic glance, Sam slid behind the driver's seat and gunned the engine; the black beauty roared into life.

The brothers drove in silence to the motel, Dean dozing, his head leaning against the window that reminded Sam of his own habits when the lull of the Impala's engine lured him to sleep. Glancing at his brother, his still pale face wearing hints of pain he was still trying to hide, Sam sighed. It bothered him how close he had come to losing his brother. Sure, the job was always risky; Dean himself would remind him that he had just drawn the short straw. But Winchester guilt always seemed to haunt the brothers on a seemingly daily basis, and this time was no exception. Sam knew he couldn't really share it with his brother; in fact, he knew damn well what he'd say: _stow your crap, Sammy._ Granted, Sam had done just that, and it had nearly cost Dean his life. But he also knew that he would never bring up what had happened in L'Anse aux Meadows again. He'd just have to do what he'd always done: push it back, deep in the recesses of his mind, and get on with the job. Hell, it was the Winchester way, after all.

"Stop looking at me, Sam, you're giving me the creeps." Dean's gravelly voice broke the silence, and Sam felt a slight grin tug from his lips. "Not," he retorted, "can't afford to crash your precious car." But Sam was smiling now, though a hint of sadness remained in his eyes. "Damn straight," Dean agreed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Shit, Sam, how did you ever sleep like this? No offence, Baby." Giving the dashboard an affectionate pat.

"If you're tired enough, guess you'd sleep anywhere." Dean groaned. "Debatable, Sammy."

"So, you feeling any better? Do you need anything?" Sam pulled the Impala into the space before their motel and killed the engine. "I can stop by the pharmacy and get you some pain meds and soup or something. Think I passed one on the way…"

"Dammit, Sam, _stop!_" Dean immediately regretted his harsh tone when he noticed his younger brother's face fall slightly. Shit. He knew Sam was only trying to help; the kid felt guilty enough as it was about what had happened. But this feeling of being so weak, helpless…it was too much. Even if the doctors had assured him that he was on the road to recovery and should be back to normal in four or five weeks. Softening his tone, Dean gently patted his brother on the shoulder. "Thanks man," he answered instead, reluctantly allowing his brother to help him out of the Impala. "Gives me some time to watch a little pay-per-view." Rolling his eyes, Sam helped his brother to the motel, settling him in bed with the TV remote and some automotive magazines he had picked up for him the day before; and as his brother bitched because of the shitty channel selection, Sam headed out the door, en route to pick up some pain meds and other supplies. As he slid into the driver's seat, the familiar scent of leather, cheap cologne, and gunpowder permeating through the interior, Sam had to fight back the overwhelming grief flooding through him. He had come so close to losing this; just he and his brother, fighting monsters and saving the world, one hunt at a time. For a moment, he just sat there, hands gripping the wheel, engine silent despite the cold.

_Dean hands him Ruby's knife to a dumbfounded, but obviously relieved Sam. "If you're serious and you want back in…you should hang on to this. I'm sure you're rusty."_

_Sam accepts the knife gratefully, shocked at Dean's sudden change of heart. He doesn't understand it. Just a few days earlier, his older brother had been adamant on keeping the distance, insisting that they be on separate hemispheres, even. Why, suddenly, does he want him back? What could have possibly happened to Dean to prompt him to make such a dramatic change of opinion? He voices this opinion, and Dean's reply is simple._

"…_Maybe we are each other's Achilles heel. Maybe they'll find a way to use us against each other, I don't know. I just know we're all we've got…"_

Sam can now feel the tears slide gently down his cheek at the memory. It was the day he'd reunited with Dean after their temporary separation. Later his older brother had shared with him the story of his stint in 2014, but at the time, the only thing Sam had felt was this overwhelming sense of relief. His older brother still trusted him, despite his massive fuck up. Hell, he'd even allowed him to trap Lucifer in the pit, for goddsakes. He trusted him. And now, more than ever, Sam was going to prove to Dean that he hadn't laid that trust in vain. Wiping his eyes, Sam turned the ignition, the old car roaring to life, and guided it in the direction of the pharmacy. He had an older brother to take care of.

XXX

Slowly things were getting back to normal for the Winchesters, the brothers settling into their familiar routine. It was, sadly, rather common for at least one of them to get seriously hurt (though fortunately it was a rare occurrence for one of them to have to be admitted to the local hospital), and the pair enjoyed some much needed time off. Bobby's place had always been a refuge to John Winchester's sons and the duo spent five weeks helping with research, relaxing, and enjoying each other's company. Of course, by the third week, both Dean and Sam were becoming restless, inching to go after their latest supernatural piece of shit, the Mother of All, but Bobby had insisted that Dean rest, regain his strength. And of course, where Dean was, Sam stayed behind. Other than a few easy salt and burns, the younger Winchester remained with his brother, grumbling about his brother's constant barrage of complaints of boredom.

"Should've thought of that before getting stabbed by a Viking, Dean."

"Shut up, Sam."

But truthfully, Sam was grateful not only for the break, but his brother's constant bitching. Initially he had still been frightened for his brother's well-being, fearing that another nightmare would still ultimately become a reality. But as the weeks passed, the terrifying dreams became even more infrequent. Occasionally he still dreamed of Jessica, sometimes still burning on the ceiling, but now, more often than not, his subconscious was toying with him, showing a slideshow of the _what might have beens. _In one particular dream, Sam is sitting on the back porch swing, drinking in a beautiful sunset, a newborn sleeping peacefully in his arms. Jess settles on the seat beside him, smiling at her husband and baby daughter. Never are words shared, just that beautiful smile, radiant as the setting sun reflects upon her delicate features and her clear blue-green eyes.

There are no further dreams of Dean. No premonitions of any sort in fact. To this day Sam wasn't certain if his dream had been a coincidence or indeed a snippet of the future, one he had managed to successfully change. It didn't matter. All that mattered to Sam Winchester was that he was with his brother; he had a home to go to when things got a little rough on the road. Everything was just as it should be, at least according to the Gospel of Winchester. Sam chuckled, thinking of the nerdy little prophet who had suddenly vanished after his leap into Hell. Sure, his life was crazy, but damn, it was one hell of a ride. And as the Impala pulled away from Singer Salvage, Dean once again behind the wheel and AC/DC blaring from the stereo, Sam realized that he wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
